Transformation
by soulnecklace
Summary: Tired of dancing with the stars in diamond-studded shoes, Cynders longs for his old life. Complete story now. Fem!
1. Final

Crack!

The coach tumbled and rolled, over and over, while Cynders and the Godfather scrambled about, trying to find something to hold onto – a strap, a bag. Thrown against the Godfather's bulk, Cynders tried to keep his nose and mouth free. He could get crushed in here. Squashed into tiny pieces, and they'd have to pick him off the floor.

Thump.

The coach stopped its rolling. It lay on its side, wheels in the air, one door in a ditch.

"Damned drivers. Always unreliable," grunted the Godfather.

So now the exit was above and the other door, Cynder's door, was in the roof. Reaching up, the Godfather opened it and, setting his feet on Cynder's back, scrambled out. Cynders, feeling queasy, hesitated; the cold, stormy night was not inviting. He pulled himself up, onto the side of the coach and jumped into the darkness. Luckily, he landed on something soft. The Godfather.

"Sorry sir," he said.

Beside the ruined coach, the horses clustered, making tiny sounds of fear. The moon flickered behind clouds ringed with silver and the wind was cold. Cynders yelped when a hand grabbed him, thrusting a sharp point into his back.

"Now, gents," leered the coach driver, a woman with foul breath and an eyepatch, "This ain't a hold up. It's a fair exchange. You've got something I want, and me?" She raised her pistol, "'as something for you."

"Scum!" roared the Godfather. "Ungrateful villain! After all I've done for you!"

"Oh, scum is it?" hissed the coachwoman. "Scum! Look at him." She turned to Cynders as though seeking an audience. "And what is it he says he's done for me? Naught but take me from me and mine. Here's a new life for you, mistress, is what he says and bam, there I am driving a coach and four. When I could be curled up nice and warm at home, with a place by the fire to call me own. The trouble with men like you," she turned back to the Godfather, "you're only after the main chance. Not a thought for anyone else."

"What do you want?" said the Godfather, quietly. Too quietly. In the dim light of the moon his hand swivelled on his cane. Cynders ducked. No ordinary cane, this. When the Godfather waved it, stuff happened.


	2. Chapter 2

Crack!

The coach tumbled and rolled, over and over, while Cynders and the Godfather scrambled about, trying to find something to hold onto – a strap, a bag. Thrown against the Godfather's bulk, Cynders tried to keep his nose and mouth free. He could get crushed in here. Squashed into tiny pieces, and they'd have to pick him off the floor.

Thump.

The coach stopped its rolling. It lay on its side, wheels in the air, one door in a ditch.

"Damned drivers. Always unreliable," grunted the Godfather.

So now the exit was above and the other door, Cynder's door, was in the roof. Reaching up, the Godfather opened it and, setting his feet on Cynder's back, scrambled out. Cynders, feeling queasy, hesitated; the cold, stormy night was not inviting. He pulled himself up, onto the side of the coach and jumped into the darkness. Luckily, he landed on something soft. The Godfather.

"Sorry sir," he said.

Beside the ruined coach, the horses clustered, making tiny sounds of fear. The moon flickered behind clouds ringed with silver and the wind was cold. Cynders yelped when a hand grabbed him, thrusting a sharp point into his back.

"Now, gents," leered the coach driver, a woman with foul breath and an eyepatch, "This ain't a hold up. It's a fair exchange. You've got something I want, and me?" She raised her pistol, "'as something for you."

"Scum!" roared the Godfather. "Ungrateful villain! After all I've done for you!"

"Oh, scum is it?" hissed the coachwoman. "Scum! Look at him." She turned to Cynders as though seeking an audience. "And what is it he says he's done for me? Naught but take me from me and mine. Here's a new life for you, mistress, is what he says and bam, there I am driving a coach and four. When I could be curled up nice and warm at home, with a place by the fire to call me own. The trouble with men like you," she turned back to the Godfather, "you're only after the main chance. Not a thought for anyone else."

"What do you want?" said the Godfather, quietly. Too quietly. In the dim light of the moon his hand swivelled on his cane. Cynders ducked. No ordinary cane, this. When the Godfather waved it, stuff happened.

"Stow it!" she said and hit the old man with the pistol-butt.

"Owf!" Dropping his stick, the Godfather cradled his hand against his chest.

Cynders had himself under control. Or he hoped he did. "Hhhere," he said, and handed her the old man's cane. "Take it."

She looked at him, seemingly surprised at his movement, and for a moment Cynders had the uncomfortable feeling of seeing himself as other people saw him; a decorative youth, good for nothing but dancing. He felt curiously small. "It is what you want, isn't it?"

"Ta," she said, giving a quick bow.

Without his stick the Godfather seemed less threatening. "One day," the old man said, "I'll find you. And when I do, it'll be back to the alley with you. Where you belong."

The coachwoman smiled, her teeth grey in the moonlight. Her one eye gleamed. "An' where," she said, "Do you think I'm going?" She turned the top of the cane, click click clack. "Never been happy here."

Cynders thought she was talking to herself, but then she looked at him. "Want to come with me?"

He thought of his old life. Back before the Godfather had come, he'd been busy. Happy. Cleaning chimneys wasn't much of a trade maybe, but still, he was proud of it. It felt good, to know you'd don't your job well. Folk could sit by the fire, and be warm and comfortable. cleaning chimneys. Until that medling Godfather had waved that cane, bang bang and then it was parties and fine clothes and handsome princesses and out every night until midnight. He was tired of it all.

"You can't go back, boy," said the Godfather. "I _made_ you."

Cynders looked down at his shoes. In the moonlight they twinkled, two startling stars that slid and danced when he moved. Dancing with the stars, he thought. That's me. In shoes made of glass.

He slipped the stupid things off his feet, reached out and grabbed the driver's hand. "I'm with you," he said.

She smiled, showing blackened teeth. "Rightio. Best look out then."

She thumped the staff down, hard, onto the rough stone road. Steam swam from its base, enveloping the coach driver, the coach and Cynders in a warm cloud that pierced the skin, making it tingle. The world seemed to shift.

"See you later," she called to the Godfather as she shimmered and shrank.

The night cleared, the clouds parted. Four horses, freed from their harnesses by the transformation, squealed wildly and ran down the muddy road, dwindling until they disappeared into the darkness. The white light from the full moon showed a young man carrying a cat and a staff, fleeing to freedom.

And in the middle of the road stood an old man, staring at a ruined pumpkin.


End file.
